


A Dangerous Conspiracy

by hannah_jpg



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (that's a pun you'll understand later), An Attempt at Suspense, F/M, Lots of awkwardness, Tempest in a teapot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-03 10:08:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15816738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannah_jpg/pseuds/hannah_jpg
Summary: Lothíriel has some feelings she's struggling to cope with, but soon that won't be her only problem. Involving poison, a jail cell, and a poorly-timed love declaration.





	1. Chapter 1

Lothíriel swirled her spoon through her soup, staring at the creamy broth but unseeing. The clatter of the meal around her sounded too normal and happy to be allowed, and deep within herself she dared to resent it, for her heart was aching.

Her cousin Faramir and his bride had been married just the day before, and had left that morning for Faramir's home in Ithilien. The wedding was not the cause of her discomfort, however; she loved her cousin and had been fortunate to come to consider Éowyn a friend. That much was happiness. But now, in her father's house only a few guests remained; namely, Rohan's king and his men. They were not bad guests: perfectly courteous and lively enough to keep spirits high. But if she could be even a fraction less attracted to Éowyn's brother, it would not be such agony.

Lothíriel's eyes rose to watch him, sitting by her father and speaking with him in grave tones. Even the mere sight of him made her catch her breath. How handsome he was, this Éomer! How brave and kind and…and… Her lips were drawn in a thoughtful frown. They had exchanged only a few words during their brief acquaintance, but every time she had met his gaze, she felt her soul and body stirring in such an unfamiliar way that she felt completely drained when they parted. And knowing that he would never see her in the same way…she, the youngest child of his sworn-father, the little sister of his brothers-at-arms… She could be nothing to him, really. Would he even recognize her in a multitude?

Sunset was long past. Being early spring, the sun still did not see fit to grace the world with light late into the evening. Candles lit Imrahil's hall, and in the small space made a lovely golden glow by which to eat and socialize by. The prince's residence in Minas Tirith was hardly anything compared to the palace in Dol Amroth. But it suited Lothíriel much better. Anywhere that Éomer dwelt would suit her perfectly, unrequited affection notwithstanding.

She brought her wineglass to her lips, sighed, and placed it back on the table without drinking. Lothíriel felt positively miserable.

But before she could dwell further on her heavy thoughts, a messenger entered the hall, bearing a sealed scroll which was presented to Imrahil. Lothíriel's attention wandered, too preoccupied to be curious, as her father opened it and began to read. A half-moment later, and Imrahil was standing, the blood drained from his face as he spoke in a harsh voice. "Amrothos, ready your men at once. There can be no delay! We leave for Dol Amroth tonight."

Her brother also stood, looking baffled but determined, and before Lothíriel even had time to put her spoon down in surprise, the hall was emptying. Imrahil beckoned her to join him, and she made her way, dazed. Erchirion had also approached, and the king of Rohan was on his feet with his stern gaze in place. He was much, much taller when she was near him, and Lothíriel gulped, trying to focus on what her father was saying.

"The corsairs have attacked," Imrahil said, his brows drawn together. "Elphir sent a message asking for reinforcements immediately. How I wish we had not slackened the patrols!"  
"There are not enough corsairs to be attacking the city," Erchirion said. "That would be a death sentence."

"Nonetheless," their father said. "Erchirion, I want you to stay here. Inform Elessar of the situation; perhaps he will see fit to sent more soldiers. Lothíriel, you will be mistress here while we are away." She nodded numbly; this much was to be expected, having done just the same during the Ring War.

"Éomer, I am sorry to leave. But you are welcome to stay here as long as you need."

"Thank you, Imrahil." His deep voice made Lothíriel tremble, but not with fright. "And I know I have only a dozen men with me, but we are at your disposal, should you need it."

"I would rather not endanger your life," Imrahil said.

"But mine is acceptable to be tossed away," Amrothos interrupted, having sent all the men to ready themselves. Their little group were now the sole inhabitants of the hall, apart from a servant or two beginning to clear away the remains of the meal. "Father, you need to prepare as well. Erchi and Lothíriel can take care of things by themselves."

"Goodbye, son. Daughter." Imrahil kissed Lothíriel's forehead, and was gone. An awkward silence ensued the trio, and Erchirion cleared his throat.

"Well," he said. "I am off to see Elessar, then. Éomer, would you care to join me?"

To Lothíriel's surprise, Éomer glanced at her before answering. "Your sister should not be left alone," he said. Lothíriel's heart squeezed most oddly: he was showing concern for her! That would keep her heart beating for quite some time.

"I ought to be safe for a few hours," Lothíriel managed to say. "Do not worry on my account."

Éomer only gave her a level look, and shrugged. "Very well."

And so then, where only a scant ten minutes earlier there had been light and laughter, Lothíriel was left alone in the dim candle night, with only the bustle of servants cleaning for company.

She had dozed in a chair in the family quarters, too restless to sleep but too tired to stay awake. It was past midnight when she was jolted into full consciousness by Erchirion barging through, and she sat straight in her chair, gripping the armrests.

"Oh!" he said. "I thought you would have gone to bed."

Lothíriel slumped back, rubbing her eyes briefly and blinking as she watched Éomer enter the room as well, closing the door quietly behind them. Oh! Oh! How her heart beat faster. "Were you able to see Elessar?" she asked, trying to appear attentive.

"Indeed," Erchirion said, collapsing into the chair next to her. "That is why we were gone for such a time."

Lothíriel scowled at him. "And? What did he say?"

"He said that his scouts have reported no increased movements on the coasts. It was all very perplexing! Though he is alerting a contingent or two of soldiers anyway, in case Father needs assistance. We did see Father and Amrothos riding out with their men."

Nothing of the situation was making sense, and although Lothíriel had plenty of practice waiting about for war and battle, this time felt different. More unsettling, almost. A clear enemy could inspire clear hope; but one with no reported movement? Lothíriel rubbed her arms through the thin silver silk of her dinner frock, a sudden chill taking her. Éomer had walked past her just then, standing near the dying fire with his brows drawn together.

"I asked for tea to be sent up," Erchirion said to Lothíriel's nonresponse. "Then we should to bed. Morning will bring more news."

Lothíriel nodded mutely, twisting her hands together as the thick tension in the room began to make the hair on the back of her neck rise. Erchirion tapped his knee with his fingers. Éomer was silent. Several uneasy minutes followed in this manner before the tea was brought in. Lothíriel made busy with that, simply for something to do, and offered Erchirion a cup without a word. Then came the most difficult part.

"My—my lord, would you care for some tea?" Her voice was squeaking, and she cringed inwardly. Éomer stirred by the fireplace, as if drawn from a trance.

"Yes, thank you."

Lothíriel's hands trembled, though she managed a wobbly smile at the king as he sat near her, accepting the proffered tea. Erchirion had already drained his and was fiddling with his cup, the delicate clinking sounding louder than it ought. Lothíriel began to sip from her own cup. Was it her worry that made it taste so…so bitter? Perhaps it needed more sugar.

"Well," Erchirion said lightly. "Not much else to do now. If we are needed, someone will send a messenger. Or do you think we ought to—" Without warning, the cup fell from his loose grip and shattered across the woven rug. Lothíriel startled, and looked up to see the whites of his eyes before he collapsed forward.

"Erchirion!" she cried, and fell to her knees to lift his head. Her mostly-full cup of tea splattered against her skirt and rolled across the woven rug. Éomer was already there, holding Erchirion's wrist to search for a heartbeat, and then with a groan that alarmed Lothíriel even worse, he slumped to the floor as well, pinning her slippered feet underneath his heavy torso.

She swallowed a scream, but it was unnecessary, for her throat closed over as spots appeared in front of her eyes. Her last thought was of how awkward this would be when they woke. Then Lothíriel blacked out completely.


	2. Chapter 2

Her shoulder hit something hard, and Lothíriel was roused enough to try to open her sticky eyes. Light and dark shapes swum in her vision, but she could not see anything. As if from far away, she heard voices, and she tried to speak but a cloth was tied across her mouth. What on earth—? She struggled, and then pain blossomed from her aching head. Her hands and feet were tied. Laughter, and then blackness again.

* * *

It was a smell that woke her the second time. It was not an unpleasant scent, and in a groggy state Lothíriel only breathed in a few times, trying to discern it. Musk and horse and soap and leather and…and… She opened her eyes, the surrounding view thankfully in focus but so perplexing that she could only stare. She seemed to be in a dungeon of some sort; dark walls oozed with unspeakable things. Only a slit of a window above let in any light, though that small amount was piercingly bright. There was no door within her vision, though she did see Erchirion's form in a heap on the ground in a corner, looking frighteningly still. He was bound as well, which gave her hope. No one would bind a dead man.

Lothíriel squirmed, stiff muscles protesting. Then her head bumped against something, and she froze. She was half-slumped across something that was keeping her off of the dirty ground, through she noticed her once-pretty skirt was smeared with plenty of filth. The smell! She tried to sit up, became significantly dizzy, and then her head fell onto her cushion once more.

Of course. She was lying across the king of Rohan.  _Of course she was._

She took a deep breath, willing herself not to panic. Naturally the entire situation was vastly alarming, and it was irrational of her to become hysterical over touching Éomer. He was clearly just as unconscious as Erchirion, for he too was unmoving.

Whatever the purpose was for someone to go through the effort of kidnapping them, surely they would come and gloat. For they three had fallen into a very nice trap.

But how were Erchirion and Éomer not awake yet, as she was? The answer was so immediate, even in her hazy mind, that she could have groaned aloud. The tea! Erchirion had drunk all of his, though Lothíriel had had barely a sip or two. That would explain why she was conscious and he was not. How much had Éomer drunk?

A few moments later Lothíriel was able to lift herself enough to wiggle off his body and onto the ground next to him. It was damp and chilly; she almost wished she had stayed where she was. Éomer did not appear to be any more harmed than she was. His hands were bound behind his back, his feet at the ankles, and there was a rag across his mouth just as hers. With his eyes closed, he looked far less stern that Lothíriel had ever seen him, his face relaxed and so, so handsome. She gave herself a mental shake. Clearly she had to do something; mooning over Éomer was going to accomplish exactly nothing.

Her mind was gradually becoming less dazed, and with glee Lothíriel noticed that her hands were tied in front of her, rather than behind. So their foolish kidnappers thought her less dangerous! She pulled the cloth from her mouth, breathing in gasps of somewhat-fresher air, though the room did have a decidedly stale taste. A closer examination showed a doorway fitted with iron bars, and she could see nothing beyond but a dim corridor. Lothíriel listened for a moment, but heard nothing beyond. Then a strangled moan behind her, and she nearly jumped out of her skin.

Éomer was stirring! She pulled herself onto her elbows and lifted her tied hands to tug the cloth from his mouth. He blinked at her several times, his gaze looking unfocused and confused.

"Are you well?" Lothíriel asked in a whisper. She did not want to draw attention, even if it did seem as though they were alone!

He mumbled something in response, and tried to lift himself up. That failed, and he fell back with a groan.

"I think it is the effects of the tea we took," she said. "It will wear off in a bit."

Éomer's eyes were screwed shut. "My hands are tied!" His exclamation was no more than a rumbly croak. Then, a more cautious, "Where are we?"

"I do not know! And yes; your hands are tied, and so are your feet, whenever you care to discover that."

His head slumped downwards, a picture of pain and misery. Lothíriel's heart wrenched, and she shifted closer to him. "What a headache!" Éomer muttered. "What on earth—"

"All I have divined is that we, along with Erchirion—who is still out cold—have been drugged and kidnapped, presumably for some nefarious purpose. Our captors have not come to gloat and so I haven't the faintest idea  _why_  we are the targets, but perhaps that is not the main concern at present."

"That is a lot of information! How are you thinking so clearly?"

Lothíriel was finding herself strangely amused at him; how different this was than his usual dourness! "I have been awake for perhaps a half an hour," she informed him. "The effects seem to wear off relatively quickly. I do think I drank less tea than you, however."

Éomer's face was still scrunched as he thought. Then, "What is the main concern, if it is not the identity of our captors?"

"Escaping, of course!"

"A window?"

"On the ceiling. Too tall for even you to reach, certainly."

"What if I lifted you?"

Lothíriel stared at him, but his expression had not changed. "It is very high up," she said. "I doubt we could, even if you were able to stand on your feet."

He grumbled, and at last turned to her with concentration in his gaze. "Door?" he asked.

"Iron bars. Very well fitted, I should think. I have not been able to stand either, to test for hinges. Some blacksmiths are foolish enough to fit hinges on the insides of dungeons, though most criminals are too thick to realize it."

Éomer's brows lifted briefly. Lothíriel felt distinctly that he was examining her rather too closely for her comfort, and she shifted awkwardly. "Well," he said at last. "Now I shall stop asking questions and simply wait for you to inform me of how matters stand. You have already proved yourself far cleverer and more composed than  _I_  am feeling, certainly."

"I can unbind you, if you wish," Lothíriel said, feeling cross that he had obviously had such a low opinion of her before.

"If you please."

Éomer rolled around a bit before giving up, and so Lothíriel pulled herself across him to reach his hands behind his back, making busy with the knots in the rope that secured him. It was difficult with her own hands hindered, but after several moments of scowling at her work, she succeeded, and the rope fell to the ground. He then hoisted himself into a sitting position, rubbing his wrists.

"We need to save the rope," he said. "We do not want our captors to know we are free. But I do hope we are safe enough for—"And he untied his bound legs posthaste. Lothíriel could only watch, feeling shy now that he was no longer prone. Éomer turned back to her, and started. "Oh! I should have helped you first. I apologize." It was all she could do not to tremble as his large but gentle hands began to loosen the ties around her ankles. Her silk dinner slippers from the previous night were looking very flimsy and silly. Then he turned his attention to her hands. He was terribly close, and Lothíriel sucked in a breath and tasted his lovely scent, which she was sure she would never forget now. "There!" Éomer said at last, and he smiled at her. "Now perhaps we can work out an escape."

Her face felt very red, and she managed a weak smile in return as she stretched her sore muscles. "I—I think I should see if Erchirion is alright," Lothíriel said in a squeaky voice.

Éomer was frowning as he caught sight of her brother. "I hope he awakens soon," he said. "I should think another pair of fists will come in handy. I do not wish to carry him out of—"

A clamor was rising up from the corridor, and Lothíriel bit back a cry of alarm.

"Quickly now!" Éomer said. "Wrap the rope around your wrists."

She did so, shaking with real fear as the voices grew nearer. Éomer had already hid his hands behind his back, slumping against the floor and assuming a wan expression. Lothíriel hurried to tuck her feet underneath her skirt, and then there was a jangle of metal keys in the door. The voices echoing in the tall chamber and down the corridors were not speaking Westron; with a coiling of fear in her stomach Lothíriel realized they were speaking Haradric, and the situation suddenly seemed far more dire.

A richly dressed man stepped through the door, which was held open by a pair of heavily armored guards. The rich man was wearing orange silks, his lips turned upwards in a sneer as his black eyes glittered at them dangerously. He barked out a command, and a guard rushed forward to kick Erchirion over until his face was towards the man, whose face contorted in fury. At once he began to splutter loudly, his angry voice making Lothíriel recoil. Her response drew attention from Éomer, and to her astonishment he leaned closer to her until their shoulders touched, though his gaze was fixed on the man with no small amount of disgust.

The man lifted a hand and struck a guard across the face, and Lothíriel startled at the sharp sound. The guard bowed several times and then backed from the room, and the man clucked his tongue as his attention turned to the other prisoners. A sly smile grew in place of his rage, and he said something low and threatening. Lothíriel lowered her eyes, and he gave a chilly laugh.

And then he was gone, the click of the locks and then the retreating of the footsteps lasting for what seemed an age. When it was at last silent again, Éomer let out a deep breath, and Lothíriel sagged.

"Blast," Éomer muttered. "I wish I knew how to speak Haradric now."

"Do not," Lothíriel said wearily. "You would not have liked to hear what he said."

Éomer turned to her in surprise, and she sighed. "Well, he did not want Erchirion. His orders were that Elphir be kidnapped. He wanted my father's heir, which was why he was so angry."

"I see. Did he by chance mention why he wanted Elphir?"

"No…perhaps to exhort some sort of pledge of loyalty. I do not know."

"And what did he say of us?"

Lothíriel bit her lip, not wishing to share the awful things the man had said. It was making her ill—or perhaps that was an after effect of the tea. Likely Éomer would not react well, and to her it seemed that the very last thing they needed to plan an escape was a vendetta.

"Lothíriel."

A shiver crawled up her spine. It was a pleasant one this time, however, and filled her with a trembling anticipation rather than a prickling fear. She was sure Éomer had never spoken her name before, and she relented. "He—he said the Harad king would be pleased to take me to wife. The king was apparently worried that I was ugly. But now…"

Éomer was silent for a moment, though she noticed he had tensed. "What does the sultan gain by taking you to wife?" he asked quietly.

"Power over my father. That much the man said; it was something along the lines of, ' _Pretty enough to please the king, and pretty enough that her father will do anything to ensure her safety. But not so pretty enough to keep if her father washes his hands of her after she is defiled.'_ " Her summary of the man's speech made her stomach turn, and Lothíriel's face flushed red, especially to be speaking of such things with Éomer. He was frowning down at her, a forbidding glint in his eyes, and Lothíriel turned away.

"Do not let his words and intentions distress you."

But Éomer's words of assurance was too late; Lothíriel surreptitiously lifted her hand to her face to hide a tear. Then he placed his half-bound hands over hers, large and warm, and she was startled into looking up at him.

"Did he say anything else?"

"Y—yes. He did say…" She paused again.

"What?"

"You are to be delivered to the Harad king as well."

Éomer's brows furrowed. "Not for the same reason, I should think."

But she was too anxious to appreciate the light-hearted comment. "N—no. And…I misspoke. It is not you to be delivered to their king. It is only your head."


	3. Chapter 3

Erchirion’s continued snoring, with apparently no end in sight, grated Lothíriel’s nerves nearly as much as Éomer’s pacing. She rubbed her temples, wishing she had beeswax to fit in her ears. The noise made it terribly hard to think, and even harder to think of a plan of escape. 

Perhaps if Erchirion woke, his added height might enable her to reach the tall window near the ceiling, and she could search out help. Or in the event of a brawl, he could add himself to the fray. There had been four guards plus the lordly man. It was unlikely that Éomer could fight past them himself, as Lothíriel was nearly certain that there would be more guards beyond their dungeon. There was no way of knowing how many, which made that entire scenario next to impossible. The guards had weapons, anyway, and they had none. 

Could they relay a message somehow? If they had parchment to write, perhaps Éomer could lift her high enough for her to toss it on the street. But that would be a gamble. She was not willing to gamble Erchirion and Éomer’s lives. 

The only possibility that seemed remotely possible was trickery, but how could they trick their captors? Lothíriel understood Haradric well enough, but in speaking, she could not help but doubt her ability. Certainly it was not well enough to engage in verbal subterfuge. 

With a frustrated huff of air, Éomer sat by her in a heap, making her start with the overwhelming sensations of his body so near to her own. “I have never felt so helpless,” he said, an uncharacteristic bitter note in his voice. “I am sorry, Lothíriel.”

“None of this is to be blamed on you,” she replied. She was beginning to feel as if he was ignoring her feelings of affection entirely, for how could it not be obvious to him? It was making her cross, and she added, “And I am no more help than you, so kindly keep your grousing to yourself. It is helping no one.”

He was squinting at her, and she realized that during this reprieve the sun had begun to set. The last light from the high window was disappearing, and as if on cue, her stomach began to complain of hunger. Lothíriel sighed, and drew her knees to her chest. How long would they be kept there? 

A few uncomfortable moments passed, and then the stomping began to echo up to them again: guards were coming. Quickly they falsely bound their hands again, but the guards that came had no intentions of opening the cage. With incomprehensible mutterings, they pushed several items through the door, and then slunked away. 

“Supper!” Éomer said, sounding significantly more cheerful than he had earlier. “May I serve you, my lady?”

Lothíriel recognized his attempt at teasing, and despite her own irascibility, lowered her head in response. “Just so, my lord.” 

“Tonight we will be feasting on—er, bread fresh from the oven. The smell is enough to cause hunger even in the fasting! I can well imagine that anything this delicious could have come only from the king’s kitchens. What foresight our captors had, to provide us with such luxury!” 

Lothíriel began to laugh, as she saw Éomer trying to tear apart was was clearly a stale loaf, and it crunched unappetizingly. “And surely there is enough that we may all eat until we feel faint!” she added. 

“Of course! My lady.” Éomer handed to her a larger portion, which she protested. 

“I am hardly hungry,” Lothíriel said. “I am sure I cannot eat this much. You must take it!” 

Éomer eyed her dubiously, the teasing forgotten, and then shrugged. “Does captivity make you ill?” he asked, and they began to eat the bread. 

“Perhaps a little,” she responded. “You?”

“No. Very little can soften my appetite, I have learned.”

His admission made Lothíriel doubly grateful that she refused the larger piece of bread. Chewing it made Lothíriel’s jaw hurt, and it tasted of ash. 

“I have had better,” Éomer said lightly after a moment. “Evidently our captors could improve upon their hospitality.” This nonchalant attempt at a joke was almost too much for Lothíriel, and she discarded the remaining bit of her bread and stood, clenching her trembling hands together. 

“I am going to sleep,” she said. “Perhaps things will be clearer in the morning.”

“I should hope so,” Éomer replied. 

She did not respond, instead going over to Erchirion and rolling him into a more comfortable position before taking a place by him with her head on his stomach. Lothíriel ignored Éomer’s bark of laughter. If her brother was going to make a nuisance of himself by refusing to wake, she was certainly going to take advantage of him for her pillow. “Good night,” she said stiffly, winding her ropes around her wrists for the event that guards patrolled during the night.

“Sleep, er—sleep well.” Éomer’s voice did not disguise his amusement. 

And so she closed her eyes.

 

Clanging and shouting broke through her uneasy rest, and Lothíriel tensed. Her eyes flew open, and she blinked at the dark dungeon walls while her mind fought to reclaim any amount of ability. A pale sort of light was streaming through the window above, meaning the night must be over, and Erchirion remained as still as ever. 

The noise grew louder, and she sat up so fast that she had to force down dizziness, watching for the guards to return. 

“Good morning,” said a voice near to her, and Lothíriel jumped as she saw Éomer, sitting against the wall and looking tired but relaxed. “I think we are about to receive a visit.” Indeed it was so; before she could respond, the iron door swung open and several men entered, the richly dressed man from the day before at the front, sneer already in place. 

“There will be no more waiting around,” he said in heavily accented Westron. “The girl will be moved today, and the men killed.”

“Why?” Éomer asked, his features calm but determined. Lothíriel stared at him, the light in his eyes making her heart beat faster, despite the danger. 

“Why?” the man repeated with a scowl. “Do you not know?”

“No; you have not had the courtesy to tell us what crimes we have committed to deserve this punishment.”

A sickly smug smile grew on the man’s face. “You are king of strawheads, no?”

Éomer’s jaw twitched, but he said nothing. 

“My king’s brother, the leader of the Black Serpent, was killed by your uncle. I am taking revenge. It is nothing personal,” he added, though malice still sharpened his voice. “Anyone who killed any member of my family would receive the same fate. It will be quick, I promise.”

“My uncle killed that man in fair battle,” Éomer said blandly. “By denying me the same right, you are voiding the potential for revenge. This is just petty.”

The man laughed, causing Lothíriel to shiver. “Your arguments will not work on me,” he said. “I was going to have you killed at noon, but I think a half-hour’s time shall suffice. I do wish to break my fast first; executions always make me a bit peckish. Perhaps it is best your friend has not awoken, as he will be dead without having to fear it.” He sniffed regally one last time, and swept from the room with the trampling and clanging guards following him. Trembling, Lothíriel could barely wait for the sounds to disappear before rounded on Éomer.

“Idiot!” she hissed. “What on earth possessed you to needle him so?”

“There really is no purpose to delaying it,” Éomer said with the slightest shrug of his shoulders. “There is little we can do, Lothíriel. Why prolong the dread?”

Lothíriel wrenched her hands from her bindings, fuming as she glared in Éomer’s direction. “Why live, you mean?” she said scathinginly. “I would have thought you would have greater respect for survival. Giving up your life as if no one will miss it; what will Éowyn say? What—what—” She almost betrayed her feelings, and clamped her mouth shut, though she continued to glower. 

“Éowyn has a new husband to comfort her,” Éomer said. “One of her children will be an excellent king or queen of Rohan, I should say. It will be no great unhappiness to me to join my parents, cousin, and uncle.”

Lothíriel’s mouth fell open. He had given up so easily! Tears of anger filled her eyes, and she stuck a finger in his face, snarling, “You are absurd! So I suppose the stories I heard of the great Éomer, unmatched in battle and tall as an oak tree and fearsome to bold are  _ utter falsehoods _ ! I am almost disgusted.”

He lifted an eyebrow at this. “Yes, I should think there is a degree of untruth in those claims,” he said mildly. “Is that really what people in Gondor say of me? How intriguing.” 

She huffed in response. Trying to cajole him into some sort of temper was a loss, but she did have to admire his tranquility. “Selfish,” Lothíriel said under her breath. “Despicably selfish.”

“Allowing the Harad king to have his revenge on me is not entirely selfish,” Éomer said. “I at least have the hope he will stop with that. No one else should have to pay.”

“ _ You _ should not have to pay! This—this is ridic—!” Lothíriel choked on the words, and she crossed her shaking arms together. Terror was flooding her body in great waves, making her mind hazy and slow. Why could she have not thought of an escape? Why could she not have saved them? 

Breaking through her daze, Lothíriel realized that Éomer had shifted closer to her, and was now holding her hand tightly in his. She stared, astonishment causing her brain to cease all activity. 

“Do not distress yourself over me!” Éomer said, his green, fiery eyes bearing into hers. “That is the last thing I want. Truly.”

Tears pooled in her eyes, and all she could think of to say lodged in her throat, and Lothíriel swallowed several times. If he was to die, she could not in good conscience withhold her true feelings. Then she said, “Oh, Éomer. I love you. I—I have been in love with you for months. I cannot watch you die…I think I might die, too.”

For the first time, Éomer showed genuine amazement. His self-possession faltered, and he stared back at her. “Lothíriel,” he began. “I—”

A loud groan made them both start, and then a familiar voice slurred, “Wha—wha’ the deuce is goin’ on?”

“Erchirion!” Lothíriel said with a gasp. “You are alive!”

“Of course I am,” he said, blinking at them in confusion. “No dead man could feel as hungry as I do. Where are we?”

“At our execution,” Éomer said, and he dropped Lothíriel’s hand. “You should have stayed asleep.”

“No! Really?”

There was no chance to explain; the guards were returning. Panic filled Lothíriel, and a small whimper escaped her. What could she do? There was nothing, nothing… 

The door swung open, and four men entered, one bearing a long, ugly sword that make Lothíriel think that she was about to become hysterical for the first time in her life. Two of the men grabbed Éomer roughly, forcing him into the center of the room and onto his knees. Surely there were not going to kill him right there, right then! Uncontrollable weeping was making her entire form convulse, and she began to wail. She had been too stupid to save them…it was all her fault… 

The low chattering of the guards had ceased, and trying to gain control of her breathing, Lothíriel peeked open one eye. Everything seemed to be moving so  _ slow _ ; the retreating of three of the guards, the fourth lifting the sword, Éomer tugging off his bindings, Erchirion surging to his feet… 

_ What _ ?

Éomer threw himself to his right, so quickly that the much smaller guard was knocked clean off of his feet and the sword falling onto the ground with a clatter. The other guards rushed in, but Erchirion was there, barrelling into the fray with his only weapon available (himself) and slamming another guard into the wall with a groan. Éomer was now struggling with the executioner, and as she watched in horror, one of his hands crept to his boots and pulled out a knife, which found a new sheath in the other man’s gut. 

Lothíriel was too surprised to cry anymore, and so she wiped her face, looking about earnestly for any other discarded weapons. It did not seem as though she was needed, but in a fight, one never knew… It seemed Erchirion was still affected by the drugged tea, for he was shaking his head blearily despite his already heroic efforts. A guard was hurtling towards him, intent on exploiting this weakness, but Éomer put himself in the way and received a terrible blow to the stomach for it. While he was thus engaged with that guard, the final one, and perhaps the smartest, drew out his blade as Lothíriel clamped her hand to her mouth. All that effort for nothing! But she was still unoccupied; the guards had dismissed her as a non-threat. That would be to her advantage. There were no other weapons apart from Éomer’s knife, but unwilling to fetch it from its resting place, Lothíriel following Erchirion’s example and simply ran and threw herself at the last guard’s back. It worked, and they both fell to the ground. Her shoulder throbbed painfully, and she tried to roll away. 

Merciless hands hauled her to her feet, and she opened her mouth to scream but—a familiar face was laughing as it put a hand over her face. “I do not need you adding to my headache,” Amrothos said. “I have had enough today, thank you very much.” And indeed, there was a dark, splotchy bruise blossoming on his forehead. Had he fought his way to them? She peeked over his shoulder, too overcome to speak, and saw that the corridor was lined with Swan Knights.  _ What on earth?  _ How—why—? 

“Good work, Éomer,” Amrothos said cheerily as he released Lothíriel. “I see that my siblings were not very much help.”

Éomer was breathing heavily, still tensed to fight, his lip bleeding though his eyes were bright as ever. “They were enough,” he said. He was not looking at Lothíriel. “I must praise your timing, however.”

“Did you bring food?” Erchirion choose that moment to interrupt, his voice petulant as he stared at his younger brother. 

“I save your life and you ask for food as if I am a scullery maid,” Amrothos said drily. “Go home, Erchi. Lothíriel, I will escort you myself.”

She tried to crane her neck to see Éomer—how terrible were his injuries?—but already she was being herded down the corridor, knights falling in behind her and obstructing her view. Relief should have been her primary emotion, but it was regret that took her. 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Lothíriel was fed, bathed, and put to bed before the noon bell rang in her father's house. She could hardly bring herself to care about any of the questions she would normally have. Heartache was making her miserable and so in the mood for languishing in bed, but too unhappy to lay still. But despite all this she slept soundly through the remainder of the day and the following night, and late the next morning.

Over the midmorning meal, delivered to her chambers so that she could continue her brooding, her father arrived to explain everything that had happened.

"You do not look any worse for the adventure," he said kindly. They were sitting out on a terrace, the sun bright and warm. Lothíriel was picking at a dish of cheese and apples, and only lifted her shoulders in response. Imrahil continued, "I am glad Amrothos found you when he did. Otherwise…" There was no need to finish the thought, for Lothíriel knew exactly how the 'adventure' would have ended. Éomer could not have possibly fought their way out the house.

"Go on, Father," Lothíriel said wearily.

"We were about twenty leagues from the city when we came across a messenger from Elphir bearing a message that all was well. It was so baffling, considering the message we received at dinner, that Amrothos and I had an hour-long argument. Eventually we realized that the messenger at dinner was unknown to us, though we knew the second one. Most suspect, do you not think?"

"Oh yes." Lothíriel took a sip of water.

"We hastened back and found you three missing—that is when we knew something was terribly wrong. Since gates had been closed all that night, you could not have been taken out of the city. Elessar helped us organize a search."

This much Lothíriel knew, or suspected; Amrothos had revealed enough to be tantalizingly mysterious on their way back to their home the day before. "I am glad you returned, Father," she said. "I—I do much care for adventure, I think."

Imrahil laughed. "The way Erchirion is going on, it was a tale worthy of novelization. Do you not agree?"

Thinking of her awkward confession to Éomer, Lothíriel shook her head abruptly. "No! I would rather keep it private, if at all possible."

Her father was looking strangely at her, noticing with narrowed eyes that she was hardly eating. "Are you well?" he asked. "I suppose I have dismissed any idea of harm, since Erchirion and Éomer have recovered so quickly and are in good spirits. But you, Lothíriel—you are not hurt?"

"No, of course not." Then she added bitterly, "I was to be a bride to their king. I would not have been harmed, at least not by those men at that time."

"Yes, that is what Éomer said. A deplorable plot, to be sure. Elessar has taken their king's man for questioning. You need not worry any further."

Lothíriel gave her father a watery smile, and for the rest of the hour the conversation turned to general topics. When at last he took his leave, she felt drained and ready for more rest.

But it was after that short rest that she felt energized enough that she could not rationalize moping any longer. She would have to face Éomer sooner or later. It was her own shame keeping her cooped up, which Lothíriel did not like one bit. She had, after all, been honest with him; that much she could not regret. Éomer was an honorable man, and he would not take advantage of her vulnerability.

Lothíriel dressed for dinner, feeling years older than she had the previous time she had gone through this routine. Her maid helped her to arrange her hair and to fasten a silver necklace about her neck. Confidence made her sweep from the chamber with her chin lifted, and as it was still early, Lothíriel decided to take a walk about the house before the meal. It did feel wondrously good to exercise.

Eventually she wandered to a massive terrace that faced east, the vibrantly orange sun making her blink as she stared down at the city and plains below. The city did not seem as safe as it had been, and Lothíriel shook herself.

"Lothíriel."

A shivering took her body, and she tensed, recognizing at once the voice and the presence it brought. She turned to see Éomer, standing tall in the archway to the terrace, clean and handsome and serious and making her feel very dowdy. "My lord," Lothíriel said courteously. "Good evening."

Éomer did not reply, and instead walked forward to take a place by her. "I hope you are recovered," he said.

"Well enough. And you?"

"I have been in worse scrapes."

A brief temptation to scoff at such a comment had to be quashed. For all his nobility, Éomer did seem inclined to some very subtle (though perhaps deserved) arrogance. But this did not damped Lothíriel's feelings at all; in fact, she discerned in that moment that their incident had only made her fall more in love with him.

He spoke suddenly. "Lothíriel, I have sought you out privately for a reason."

She met his eyes, baffled. What on earth—why was he so solemn?

"Do bear with me; this is a challenge I have never before faced." His face was still, and so if he was nervous, it did not show. Lothíriel could only stare, and Éomer's deep voice continued, "Lothíriel, I have come to supplicate your hand."

"My hand?"

"Yes; your hand in marriage."

She blinked several times, a hundred thoughts clamoring in her mind to be articulated. She seized one, and stammered, "You do not have to marry me because…because I told you I love you," Lothíriel said shakily. "That is ridiculous. In fact—" A sweeping anger overtook her. "I am rather offended that you think it requisite! And that you would bind to me with no affection on your part…I—I…I should call you out for that, I really should!"

Éomer did not seem perturbed by this outburst, though he wasted no time in responding. "You are misunderstanding my reasoning, Lothíriel. I do not wish to marry you because I feel it necessary to preserve your dignity. Where I am from, the freely offered heart of a woman is no small matter, especially if the woman is as passionate and brave as you. There is none better to be the queen of Rohan and no woman I would rather have by my side."

A small squeak escaped her, and her ears were ringing. To her even greater surprise than Éomer's declaration thus far, was the slightly sheepish expression that overtook his features.

"You say there is no affection on my part? That is not strictly true. I am not accustomed to showing my feelings, and so it would not stand to reason that you do not notice them. When I met you, princess of Dol Amroth, my heart responded in a way I did not immediately recognize. But I also beheld your elegance and refinement, and I knew it was impossible that you would ever deign to consider me. Even after our captivity, during which I learned that your intelligence leaves me leagues behind. I cannot pretend to very much cleverness; in fact, I worry whether I am enough to keep you interested."

Lothíriel was sniffling, and traitorous tears were building in her eyes, blurring Éomer's suddenly concerned expression. "Deign to consider you?" she said hoarsely, with an awkward laugh. "That is exactly what I thought of you! Though not the elegant and refined part, perhaps. But you mistake me, Éomer. I am not so mighty as you suppose."

"Nor I. I am afraid that the man who stands before you is merely an ordinary being that wishes to marry you, despite misgivings of my own worthiness. Without any other considerations…would you?"

Her heart was hammering, but despite that she felt that she could sing and fly and conquer anything. A smile grew on her blushing face. "Yes," Lothíriel said. "Yes, please!"

Éomer returned her smile, looking very pleased and a bit relieved. He took her hand and lifted it to his lips, and Lothíriel thought she might swoon. "Lothíriel…my darling." His voice was low. "May I kiss you?"

It was all she could do not to beg, but rather nod her head as serenely as possible. Now she was sure she would swoon—but Éomer wrapped her up in a very pleasant embrace and so Lothíriel knew at least she would not topple over. Her eyes fluttered shut, and as his lips pressed to hers, her blood hummed with unseen fire and her mind with a cloudy haze. Somehow her hands were taking on a life of their own, searching him out—his chest, his shoulders, his face—everywhere she had admired from afar but could not properly touch until then. Éomer's breath was hot and pleasant, and Lothíriel felt that as far as first kisses went, this one was utterly perfect. Her aching heart was suddenly feeling very whole, and very rapturous.

Several moments later, she remained snug in his embrace, and his hands were stroking along her arms as they stood in a peaceful silence, watching the last rays of the sun disappear. Lothíriel was sure that they were late for supper, but she was too content to move, and a euphoric sigh escaped her.

"You have made me a very happy man," Éomer said. "Whatever I have done to deserve a love such as you…I dare not question."

Lothíriel lifted her head to study him. Even in the dimming light, his eyes were so very green and warm as he looked down at her with a smile. This was much more feeling radiating from him than she was accustomed, and so it must be true. He truly cared for her! One niggle of doubt remained in her heart, however, and Lothíriel took a deep breath.

"Éomer," she said slowly. "Why did you not tell me you had a knife in the dungeon? It might have made more of a difference, were it counted among our assets. And—and acting as though you were going to your death when you clearly had a plan…you made me a complete milksop."

He brushed his fingers along her chin, smiling. "You are a very pretty milksop in any case, Lothíriel," Éomer said. "I wanted a genuine reaction from you; were you too confident the guards might have suspected. I was depending almost entirely on surprise. The knife was part of it."

Lothíriel huffed. "Well, they did a terrible job of searching you for weapons! Not to mention there were not guards posted at all times. If they had really been intent on killing you, they ought to have done so straightaway instead of gloating about it. I say, there are dozens of things  _I_ would have done differently."

"All of this, and you are pointing out the failings of our captors!" Éomer's voice held more than a hint of amusement.

"Well," she said mildly. "They were not very good villains."

"But I, for one, must always be in their debt, as without their interference we might not have reconciled our sentiments. Darling Lothíriel!"

It was all still very astonishing that such a serious man could possess such a tender heart, but Lothíriel would not complain, and she tilted her head upwards to be kissed again.


End file.
